Someone has eaten all the M&Ms out of the Costco bag of trail mix.

Swimsuits are drying on the deck railing.

Every decision—bike ride? swimming? trip to village for smoothies?—is a negotiation between fourteen stakeholders between the ages of 3 and 65.

Mom learns something on a news website and goes from room to room and tells everyone. “Did you know today is the anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing?”

My friend Lisa and I were talking about books the other day, and when I said how much I loved Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry, she lit up — “Oh, Grandpa Wendell!!” Now I can’t think of him any other way. :) One of his poems, “How To Be A Poet (to remind myself)” is SO GOOD, and anytime I use it in class, students quietly and instinctively lean in. There’s a feeling that we’re hearing wise and instructive words. Afterward, I invite them to write a poem of their own based on Grandpa Wendell’s example. So here’s his poem, followed by the prompt . . .

A long time ago, when my boys were in elementary school, we drove home from school on a really windy day—the trees bent sideways, the car shook with every big gust, and traffic lights swung from their wires. Leaves swirled everywhere.  At a red light, a bunch of crows blew over the intersection like scraps of black paper.

I’ve been reading The How of Happiness by Sonja Lyubomirsky after a colleague at Pacific University used it in a first year humanities class. Students loved the writing style, the science-based content, and the practical suggestions.

Lately I’ve been practicing one of Lyubomirsky’s many “happiness-enhancing” activities: Savoring Life’s Joys. It’s basically slowing down to notice and absorb whatever goodness is unfolding in the present moment.

There’s a parenting book called All Joy and No Fun, and though I haven’t read it, I’ve always loved how the title reminds me that joy and fun aren’t the same thing. In fact … at least in my experience … “savoring life’s joys” usually comes tinged with sadness.

A friend told me that auto-correct is like an elf who wants to help except he’s drunk. The latest batch of emails and essays from students are covered with drunk-elf fingerprints. They make up words like “multiplitude” and “exuberated”. They don’t notice when autocorrect turns “conservation” into “conversation”, “meditation" into “mediation”, or “baked” into “naked”. Last week I got this email from a student:

“Hi, Jenna,

I woke up feeling pretty light headed and had a super bag soar throat. I won’t be in class today, is there anything I need to do to have all my dicks in a row on Friday?”

A long time ago, when my sons were small, I learned to love poetry because I didn’t have time to read anything else. I tacked poems over the kitchen sink and read them over and over, letting them wash through me.

I love poems for their smallness, their substance, their portability. I love that they pack so much meaning into such a tiny shape. When life feels crowded and rushed, looking at a poem is like taking a slow, deep breath. I’m soothed by the language and by the shapes of the words surrounded by white space … even when I’m not always sure what the poem is about.

In case you’re wondering about the beautiful pictures on my website, I have to tell you about two of my very talented and generous friends . . .

Sarah Morgan designed the site and took all the photos for the site itself, and Nathan Towry took the pictures that accompany these journal entries. :)

 I woke myself up last night, talking in my sleep, telling the bible story about Mary and Martha that I’d heard so many times as a girl. But in the dark, in the unguarded place of sleep and dreams, I understood the story in a new way …

I used to associate the word “practice” with a a skill—like dribbling, passing, or running lines when I played soccer. Constant repetition was part of becoming a better athlete. 

When I took piano lessons, I practiced piano. When I took ballet lessons, I practiced ballet. Eventually the practicing leaked into regular life. I found myself humming the scales or standing in third position when I was in line at the grocery store.

Last week in a yoga class the teacher said to “find the place between ease and effort” while moving through the poses. I laughed. Does that elusive place even exist? A sweet spot where I’m trying, but not too hard? Where I’m resting, but not too much?